


Somnum Exterreri Solebat

by Jules135



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Big Brother Dean, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Sam, Nightmares, Preseries, Scared Sam, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 22:12:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4075681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jules135/pseuds/Jules135
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dean finds Sam having a nightmare in the middle of the night and does his best to comfort him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somnum Exterreri Solebat

Dean woke in the middle of the night with a start, and before he could process what was happening he had his hand rested on the pistol that John had left on his nightstand. The clock next to him read 1:07. He wasn’t certain for a moment as to what had woken him, but it came again- a shrill cry piercing the veil of silence that sent shivers up Dean’s spine and make his hair stand on end. The cry was unnervingly familiar but horrifyingly strange, like it had been distorted with terror. The scream rang in Dean’s ears, as if it were bouncing from wall to wall but not able to break through the tranquility of the midnight house.

It was Sam. There was no doubt in Dean’s mind. The only thing that noise could be was his brother- but a wrecked, distorted, panicked Sam. Without a second thought, Dean snatched up the gun, slammed past his door, and sprinted towards Sam’s room.

If anything happened to his little brother, Dean would be entirely to blame. John had left on a hunt the night before with only the instructions “be careful, don’t spend all of the money, and don’t break into the beer.” As if Sam and Dean needed reminding- it was the same three rules every time. And every time, after the door shut with a clap behind John, the boys would sit on the couch and laugh about it, pretending to steal their father’s alcohol from thin air. Then they would usually get out a bag of something- peanuts, maybe, or popcorn- and watch tv. This time, however, after John had given them the instructions and walked out the door, after the door slammed shut behind him, after Dean shot a grin at Sam, Sam had shaken his head and muttered, “I’m too tired, Dean. Not tonight,” and retreated to bed.

Something had been wrong, but Dean hadn’t realized it soon enough. Had he been poisoned by a djinn? Had a demon possession gone wrong? Had it been something else, something darker, something that only John knew about, something that Dean wouldn’t be able to fight?

Dean stood poised outside of Sam’s bedroom door, gun in hand, prepared to jump in and rescue his brother from whatever was hurting him, but his mind seemed to be refusing to form a plan. _Wait. You need a plan of attack. You don’t know what’s in there, right? Think back; see if you can remember anything that seemed off about him._ That was the reasonable side of Dean, the one who knew that the shoot-first-ask-questions-later tactic wouldn’t work this time.

 _I don’t care what’s in there. Whatever it is, it’s hurting Sammy. I need to get in there NOW._ And that was the frantic side, only able to think about his brother.

_That’s a brilliant way to get yourself and your brother killed, or worse._

_If I don’t go in there now, it’s going to kill him, and I won’t be able to stop it. This is the only shot I have._

_You’re overreacting, Dean. You don’t know that it’s aiming to kill him. Just a couple more moments so that you know what you’re dealing with._

_I do not care what I am dealing with. I care that Sammy is in there and he is in pain._

_Did your father never teach you anything, Dean? Did he-_

Another bloodcurdling wail erupted from the room beside Dean, interrupting his thoughts, and Dean was done arguing. He flung himself past the closed door and into Sam’s room, pistol aimed and hands steady, eyes searching desperately for whatever unwanted being was camping out with his brother. However, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness of Sam’s room compared to the dim light in the hallway, he saw that there were no monsters tormenting Sam. It was something much worse, something that pulled Dean’s heartstrings taut to the point of snapping.

Sam was curled in a ball on his bed, eyes screwed tight with pain. His face glistened with tears as more continued to cascade down and onto his sheets. Clutching the bundled up sheets and blankets with incredible force were Sam’s hands, curled into tiny fists; they looked white in the faint moonlight. His small, thin shoulders were shaking violently, in sync with the previously inaudible sobs that were escaping his lips between gasps of air. His breaths were quick and uneven. His toes were tightly curled. His back was tense. Never in his life- ever, in all of his fourteen years of living- had Dean seen a ten year old look as miserable and hopeless as his baby brother did in front of him.

But the worst part wasn’t the sobs, nor the fists, nor the shining face, nor the shaking shoulders. The worst part was the volume. Everything was so soft, so small, and impossible to hear if you weren’t a mere few feet away from him. It was like he knew how not to be heard. Like he had had practice. Dean felt sick to his stomach as a single thought struck him. How long had this been happening to him? Had this- whatever this was- been tormenting Sam repeatedly, driving him to near insanity nearly every night? Why hadn’t Sam told him or John?

Another sharp cry brought Dean back to earth. “Sammy,” he said in a loud, ringing tone, “Sammy, I’m here. Listen to me. I need you to listen to me.” It only took a few moments for Dean to realize that Sam wasn’t hearing him and was, in fact, still asleep.

“Sammy. Sam! Wake up!” The near shouts did nothing to halt Sam’s sobs, and Dean was forced to grab his brother’s shoulders and shake them. “Listen to me, Sammy! Wake up! Wake up!”

Finally, a loud, shuddering, sharp gasp told him that Sam had returned to consciousness. Sam sat bolt upright and blinked a few times, seemingly disoriented, and then he bowed his head and croaked, “Dean-” before breaking down into real, full sobs. They were no longer no longer small and muffled, as Sam was no longer subconsciously trying to hide them.

Dean instantly dropped onto the bed beside his brother and wrapped his arm around him, drawing him in close. “Shh,” he murmured, “It’s okay, Sammy. I’m here. Do you want to tell me what that was all about?” Sam shook his head vehemently and buried his head deeper into Dean’s shoulder. “No? Okay, that’s fine... I’m here, kiddo.”

Sam seemed to be shrinking as he trembled. Dean felt him trying condense himself into a smaller figure that was less noticeable, as if by shrinking he could erase whatever had been hurting him. “D-don’t leave,” he pleaded miserably.

Dean tightened his grip on Sam, “I’m not going anywhere,” he promised, but his brother didn’t seem to hear him. Dean ran his fingers through Sam’s hair, gently prying apart the tangles with his free hand to prove to him that he was there with him. Then, he moved his hand down and rubbed Sam’s back soothingly. “Shhh, it’s okay Sammy. ‘M here.”  They sat like that for a long while- Sam burrowing deep into Dean’s tight hold and Dean softly giving whispers of comfort.

At long last, Sam’s sobs turned into sniffles and deep, shuddering breaths, and Dean knew that it was now or never. “Sammy?” He asked hesitantly; Sam remained quiet, and Dean took this as a sign that his baby brother had heard him and he continued, “We need to make sure that this doesn’t happen again, right?”

Sam said nothing, but Dean felt him give a small shrug.

“Right. So what you need to do, Sam, is tell me what happened. Just tell me what happened, and I can help you. Okay?” Dean looked down at Sam, and Sam’s breaths quickened again as he shook his head. “Sam, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s the matter.” Another fierce head shake, “Okay. Can you tell me how long this has been happening?”

“Only t-tonight,” Sam whispered quickly, speaking for the first time since his plea for Dean not to leave him. His voice was thin and quavering.

Dean closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. “I know that’s not true, kiddo. How long has this been happening?”

At first, he didn’t think Sam was going to answer him; the only sound was the chirping of the crickets from outside, and it flowed smoothly inside through the thin, absolutely not soundproof walls. But then Sam said so softly that it was scarcely more than a shaped breath, and Dean had to lean in closer to hear the words he spoke, “I don’t know. A long time.”

In that moment, a horrible picture came to Dean’s mind- Sam sound asleep, crying silently and clutching his sheets and squeezing his eyes shut and being tortured by who-knew-what every night. Every night. Every night, with his toes tightly curled and his face pressed into the pillow as if it would help chase it all away and his back tensed and his shoulders shaking. Every night, subconsciously forcing his sobs and gasps down and making them near-silent so that nobody would discover him in pain. Every morning, waking up and being done with it, and every night, going through it all again.

“Sammy, I want to help you. But I can’t help you if I don’t know what I’m helping you with. If I can’t help you, this is going to keep happening. Please Sam, tell me what’s wrong.”

The word was spoken with the air of one wanting to get it over with. It was loud and clear, brutal, and very quick. “Nightmares.” Then Sam’s eyes welled up again, and he continued to bury his head in Dean’s shoulder.

Nightmares had always been a part of Sam. When Sam had been especially young, he would wake Dean up every time he had a bad dream- sometimes about clowns, or thunder, or giant dogs with big teeth- asking to sleep in Dean’s bed instead of his own. Of course, Dean had always agreed; it was impossible not to when there was a chubby toddler in front of you staring you down with giant puppy dog eyes and a tearstained face. As Sam grew older, however, he stopped coming into Dean’s room and stayed alone. Sometimes, though very rarely, he would cry out, and Dean would come in and find Sam lying awake, eyes wide and breathing heavily. That hadn’t happened in years.

“What about?” Dean inquired quietly.

Sam’s voice was muffled, as he was speaking into Dean’s side rather than to Dean himself. “The same thing. Always the same thing. We’re on a hunt in the forest- you, me, and Dad- and I get lost. I look everywhere, but I can’t find you. And then I find you after a really long time, and you laugh at me. You say that you didn’t even want to look for me. That you were tired of me. That you were glad I was gone. You tell me I’m a silly baby, and that big kids don’t get lost. Then you leave. And I always try to stop you, but whenever I get close enough to grab you, you move farther away. I’m always so close... but so far away. And I never get to you. But not this time. This time-” an anguished cry broke through Sam’s lips, and he pushed harder towards Dean.

Dean asked gently, “This time what?”

A pause, then a sniffle, then the shaky words, “This time you didn’t move farther away. This time I caught you, and I stopped you, and I hit you. I hit you over and o-over again, and you st-st-started bleeding, b-but I didn’t stop, and then y-you... you d-died. You weren’t b-breathing and you were c-cold and your eyes were open and c-cloudy and your s-skin was kinda blue and there was blood every- everywhere.” Sam succumbed to the sobs again, letting his voice die away and turn into the choking gasps.

Weariness rolled over Dean as he kissed the top of his brother’s head instinctively. “Look at me, Sammy. Look at me.” Sam pulled his head from Dean’s shoulder, but his eyes remained fixed on the bed below him. “Please, buddy. I need you to look at me.” Dean cupped Sam’s chin in his hand and raised it slightly, forcing Sam to meet his eyes, and his heart ached at how red and blotchy they were. Sam had gone silent, but tears still spilled from his eyes and rolled down his face.

“I didn’t mean to kill you,’ Sam said quietly.

“You didn’t kill me, Sam. You were dreaming. Dreams are weird. That wasn’t me. That wasn’t you. See me? I’m right here. Am I bleeding?”

“No.” The word was just a breath, exhaled softly and shaped to form an answer.

“Feel my hand, Sam-” Dean reached his free hand out and put it in front of Sam- “Is it cold?”

Sam hesitantly reached his own trembling hand out and gripped Dean’s tightly. Dean could feel the warmth of his younger brother’s hand, pulsing in sync with his heartbeat, and imagined Sam could feel the same. “No,” Sam admitted, “Your hand is warm.” But even after making the decision, Sam didn’t drop Dean’s hand.

“Right. That means I’m alive. I’m completely fine. And Sammy, if you were lost, I promise you that I would drop everything and look for you. I would be very, very scared. And I would never, ever laugh at you.”

“So... you’re not tired of me?”

Dean gave a small chuckle, even though there was nothing funny about the situation, and pressed his forehead to Sam’s smaller one, “Not at all. You mean the world to me. I will never be tired of you.” He withdrew his head, and Sam rested his on Dean’s shoulder again, but this time it seemed more relaxed compared to the distressed and anguished way he had done it earlier.

“I’m never going to be tired of you either, Dean.”

“Why, thank you,” Dean replied with a small smile, “Now, Sammy. Why didn’t you ever tell me or Dad? We could’ve helped you sooner.”

Sam closed his eyes and shrugged, “I didn’t want you to think I was a silly baby.”

Dean watched as Sam’s breaths grew deeper, reflecting on Sam’s dream. Clearly the reason he had cried out tonight and not any previous night was because of the fact that he had hurt Dean in that dream and no other. He thought of the previous night, when Sam had gone to bed rather than watch a movie and eat snacks with Dean. He should have seen the warning signs then, rather than waiting until Sam was already in the middle of a nightmare to rescue him.

Sam’s breathing was deep and slow now, and his grip on Dean’s hand had loosened. Dean carefully withdrew his arm from behind Sam’s back and started to lay him back down for bed when Sam’s eyes flew open. “No,” he rasped instantly, sitting up and squeezing Dean’s hand again, “Please don’t go.”

Dean nodded and gently pushed Sam back down, “Okay. I’ll stay here.” After Sam was curled up, he lowered himself beside his brother into the small bed and threw an arm over him. “If any bad dreams come back tonight,” he murmured, “You wake me up, okay?”

Sam nodded in a subdued way and whispered back, “Okay. But don’t tell Dad.”

Dean returned the nod, “Okay.”

Then the two were silent. Their breathing slowed and deepened until it was hardly noticeable- not that there was anybody there to notice. The boys had fallen asleep beside each other, Sam curled up in Dean’s arms and Dean’s arm hanging limply over Sam’s side.

There was no telling why- it could have just been the fact that he wasn’t alone, or the touch of warm skin on warm skin, or the feel of breathing with somebody else- but the bad dreams didn’t return to Sam that night. In fact, that specific dream never returned to Sam again. Maybe it was coincidental. Or maybe- and this was what the younger and older brother firmly believed- the nightmares knew that if they dared to come and hurt the little boy again, they would have the older brother to deal with. And when the older one was protecting the younger one, it was a very, very bad idea to be in its way.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I appreciate all forms of feedback, so please don't be afraid to be critical, as long as you're not being rude.


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